


Bringing Colour to the World

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, I'm vomiting rainbows, M/M, Prompt Fill, Schmoop, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The man was insufferable, and he’d brought all of this on himself. He was whiny and stroppy. He was demanding and impatient. Nothing John did was good enough or fast enough or made anything better. But that look—the helpless desperation of that look—made any resentment John harbored disappear in a wave of affection. Sherlock trusted him. Sherlock needed him. Sherlock desperately, desperately loved him."</p><p>In which we encounter a sick detective, a snuggle on the couch, and a silly fairytale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing Colour to the World

John had just pulled the boiling kettle from the burner when he received a soft blow to the back of his head. He frowned and turned. The offending weapon had fallen with a thump and now sat impotently at his feet. Across the room, his attacker was unarmed, face twisted in rage. John shrugged and returned to the task at hand.

“As projectiles go, a pillow leaves much to be desired. Though I thank you for not hitting anything breakable this time.”

Sherlock growled in return, sweaty curls plastered to his forehead, sharp cheeks flushed with fever. “It’s insufferable, John. Everything hurts. My _tongue_ hurts—how is that even possible? Fix it. For Christ’s sake, _fix it!”_

Tray in hand, John crossed the room and knelt before the disaster on the couch. “Would you like some tea? I don’t think I can do anything about an aching tongue, but it might help your throat.”

Sherlock didn’t grace John with an answer. Instead, he stared unseeing at the ceiling and let out a long, low moan. John set the tray on the coffee table and settled on the floor. He rested the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead and frowned. Temperature still a bit high. He pulled a cool wet cloth from the tray and wiped the beaded sweat from the man’s face.

“There now … does that feel better?” 

“Where’s my pillow?” Sherlock whined. “I need my pillow.”

“And you’d have it if you hadn’t chucked it at me, you git. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I suggest you _don’t_ tackle a criminal into the Thames in the middle of November.”

A hint of a smile curled at the edge of Sherlock’s mouth. “Caught him, though.”

Jesus, was he proud. A proud idiot.

John made to wipe at Sherlock’s neck with the cloth, but the man waved him away. He shifted on the couch in search of a more comfortable spot. Unsuccessful, he shifted back, groaned, then seemed to give up.

“Why is everything so awful?” Face slumped toward John, mouth trembling, eyes tragic. “ _John_.” 

The man was insufferable, and he’d brought all of this on himself. He was whiny and stroppy. He was demanding and impatient. Nothing John did was good enough or fast enough or made anything better. But that look—the helpless desperation of that look—made any resentment John harbored disappear in a wave of affection. Sherlock trusted him. Sherlock needed him. Sherlock desperately, desperately loved him.

It always came back to that, didn’t it? John would put up with all the slings and arrows of this life just to be looked at—however briefly—like he was the whole of the world to this man.

“Budge over.”

Sherlock’s brows crushed together then smoothed in understanding. He scooted toward the back of the couch as far as he could go, making space for John to climb up. John stretched out alongside the detective, head placed on the armrest, and was immediately enveloped by long, lean planes and bony limbs. He curled his arms around Sherlock and brushed the sweaty curls away from his face. Then he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and gently stroked his back.

“Better?”

Sherlock sighed against him. “Uh-huh.” 

He was silent for a long while, and John thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep. John watched dust eddy in the fading sunlight, feeling warm and content—if a bit smothered. He wondered how long Sherlock might sleep. The man desperately needed it, and if he had to be a human pillow to achieve that, well, John could do it. Some long minutes later, he was startled to hear Sherlock breathe his name.

“John.” 

He kept his voice low, loath to shatter the fragile peace. “Yes?” 

Sherlock tipped his head up, eyes still closed. “Tell me a story.” 

John smiled. Sherlock’s frame bounced as John rocked with silent laughter. “A story?” 

“A happy story. With murders,” Sherlock clarified.

“Of course. Wouldn’t be a happy story if someone wasn't getting killed, would it?” John took a deep breath and searched his admittedly small repertoire of fairytales. Well then. An unconventional fairytale for an unconventional man. 

“Once upon a time, there lived a noble knight,” he began. “In his travels, the knight had fought a great many battles and had seen a great many things. When his time serving the king was at an end, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Everything felt heavy, and all of the colour had gone out of the world. If you had seen him as he made his way home, you might believe him broken.”  

John’s lips brushed against Sherlock’s forehead as he spoke. The detective listened silently.

“At this time there lived a wise man in the kingdom—a great alchemist. His work was based on reason and science, but it was so beyond the scope of understanding, it looked to everyone else like witchcraft. Though magic was forbidden, the alchemist made himself useful to the king’s guard, and so escaped imprisonment or hanging.”

Underneath him, Sherlock stirred, mapping out John’s ribs with his fingers.

“It was a lonely life. For both men.” John swallowed thickly then carried on. “One day the knight was thrust into the path of the alchemist. The alchemist was wild and strange and exciting; the knight had never seen anything so beautiful. 

“Well, before he knew it, the knight was caught up in a mad new life. He followed the alchemist around the kingdom, rescuing townspeople from bandits, halting plots hatched against the king—”

“And murders?” Sherlock cut in. “Were there murders, too?” 

“Of course. They came across many murders—each more gruesome and fascinating than the last. The wise man would use his alchemy to discover what had happened, and the king’s guard would carry the murderers away in shackles.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s sides in glee.  

“The alchemist was infuriating at times, sullen at others. He kept disgusting potions next to the mutton and melted the knight’s armor down for his own uses. But in spite of all of that, he made the knight feel alive. He brought colour back into the world, and for that the knight vowed he would always stay by the wise man’s side.”

“Would he really?” Sherlock murmured. “Always?”

“Always.” John pressed his palm against Sherlock’s back. “Always. They had many adventures—the alchemist and the knight—dashing around the kingdom until they were old and grey. And when the time came, they bid a content farewell to the world of mortal men and greeted the next life together hand in hand.” 

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s head. “Sleep now, okay?” 

Sherlock’s breath puffed against his chest. John felt sleepy and cozy; perhaps he’d nap as well. He’d just felt himself slipping into dreams when Sherlock spoke. 

“You weren’t the only one.”

“Hm?”

“Living in a colourless world. You weren’t the only one.” 

“I know,” John said to the man he loved—to the man who loved him. “I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Promp fill for i-will-not-be-caged.tumblr.com, who requested: "Could I get a bit of fluffy Johnlock to cheer me up after a super long week? Maybe something where Sherlock is sick and being a big baby about it while John takes care of him?"
> 
> You wanted fluff? Let me drown you in a sea of fluff. I don't know why I get so saccharin with these boys, but sometimes I just can't help myself.


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